


The Innermost Box

by Jayalalita



Category: Peter Pan & Related Fandoms, Peter Pan - J. M. Barrie, Peter and Wendy - J. M. Barrie
Genre: Diary/Journal, Epistolary, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:16:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jayalalita/pseuds/Jayalalita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her romantic mind was like the tiny boxes, one within the other, that come from the puzzling East, however many you discover there is always one more...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Innermost Box

I grow sick with dreams. My imagination has had too rich a diet, of poetry and art and fancies. Father thinks me a fool (in that way only a young girl can be a fool), and Mother frets at my prospects. I grow older but no less foolish each passing day. I waste away from want of love, but the love which is available to me is as poison. I do not want these eligible young men my mother and father introduce me to. They're few enough as it is, and a thin, meagre harvest they make.

I want my dreams.

He is there. A memory.

It was Peter at first. It was Peter I first knew, and Peter I clung to once I returned home. But now I see _him_ , the one with the hook. The dark one, the man; he has replaced the boy.

I cannot fly to him. We cannot play those old games, childish games. In dreams, I do not visit him on silly adventures, romping and running barefoot and wild. The wildness is inside me as I am near him. The wildness grows as he leans closer. We need not run and chase the other; the chase is in every passing glance, pointed phrase, and the very-near, achingly near, brushing of a limb, a hand. We need not play at savages; our civilised savagery is a far more truthful, and dangerous, game.

He is courtly. Considerate. Ruthlessly polite. A warm hand taking mine in greeting, eyes of ice upon me. I am as frightened as when I was a child; as thrilled as a woman.

Waking is a chore, and grows increasingly difficult. I want my dreams.


End file.
